Standing far off

 

Standing alone
while the good people pray out loud;
aching with the deep sadness of one
whose life lacks the easy handles
of the uncomplicated
and comfortably righteous.
Standing separate
in the unfashionable garb of the outsider,
with head scarf and turban
as the indelible red stamp
inviting the special treatment
of those who are different.
Standing in isolation
in the designated space
in the appointed queue,
watching as doors are opened
for a moment
and shut again, tightly.
Standing apart,
yearning to belong,
waiting for the word, crying:
Lord, have mercy!

© Ken Rookes

turned back, praising

 

My skin connects me to the world,
its creases and lines are my interface
with everything and everyone else.
When people look upon me it is my skin,
framing my eyes and giving form to my soul,
that they see.
When I greet friends,
and our hands clasp
and our lips and cheeks touch,
it is my skin, and their’s,
that momentarily join.
When I embrace, and make love,
it is my skin, damp and flushed,
that unites me with my lover.

My skin betrayed me;
it turned leprous.
I became frightful,
a disfigured object of separation;
even children, normally curious and accepting,
were instructed to run away.
No-one would look upon my face,
there was none to touch or caress;
my pain was made complete in my despair.
Nor was there anyone to greet me,
save my equally reluctant comrades in disconnection.

We lived in places in between,
where people passed through
out of need, not choice.
Thus the Teacher came by one day;
we shouted from a distance, not daring to approach.
Showing the requested mercy,
he spoke his words of generous healing,
restoring skin and life,
and releasing great joy.

© Ken Rookes